It's a New Dawn, It's a New Year
by Postapocalypticdepository
Summary: Bella's a celebrity psychiatrist who's taking a New Year's Eve flight to Paris. Guess who she meets along the way.


Welcome to PAD's World.

Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Universe.

I just want to coexist in one of her galaxies.

* * *

This is a repost of my first fic.

A special shout-out goes to Bornonhalloween for her painstaking beta-ing and unrelenting support.

* * *

It's a New Dawn, It's a New Year

Throngs of screeching, high-pitched, girly keens enter my mildly buzzing sanctuary.

This is just how I want to spend my New Years' Eve Day, especially at this time of the morning.

How do they get this close?

This is why I pay extra for first class, too many damned celebrities in this city.

It's so disrupting.

I need to get out of here for good.

I snicker to myself.

_Yeah, right Bella, any day now. _

I've been saying this for years but never act on it.

Until the time of the symposium I have to present at, I just want some calm and quiet during my working vacation.

As I glance over my glass, I note that the shrilly crying continues its echoing through the lounge's open door.

It looks like it's for some tall smiling, autograph-signing, trench coat-wearing, guitar-carrying, copper-haired, famed talent, maybe, in his mid-to-late twenties.

But, I pay the drama, no mind.

It's all been played out before.

New fame brings much fortune... then hardship.

Money cleans people up really well out here, but it also crushes them.

I know ... I've seen it before ... I've heard their stories.

He lumbers over to the bar easing down his guitar and duffel bag, skipping the seat adjacent to me only to settle into the next one, casually.

His carefully maintained façade is withering.

I recognize him from somewhere previously...

on t.v. ... maybe in concert ... even a movie ... but I can't place him...

"Grey Goose Bloody Mary, with a salted rim, and extra horseradish... please."

I cannot make out his mumbling as he takes off his Ray Bans from his still damp mess of hair while squeezing the bridge of his nose, pinching equanimity back into his brain .

He looks like someone who's had a rough night - one of many, judging by his pin-pointy pupils and receding eyes.

Darkened circles take up residence underneath them.

For once, I actually feel sorry.

I don't think he brought this upon himself.

He looks so old, so wise beyond his years.

He reminds me of... someone else….

I can't imagine what he's seen, or heard or had done to him...

Well, actually I can.

I've heard it many times before and not just because I've been paid to...

Yet, something about him strikes me differently. I actually find myself wanting to care about what it is... what's troubling him.

Totally out of my apathetic character, I shake my head and speak.

"You poor man... how do you put up with it?"

I catch him in mid-sip. "Excuse me?"

"You carry yourself with the poise and grace of noble royal.

Yet, clearly you appear as beaten and withered as a storm battered shore.

Look, you're even turning up debris."

I point out a girl's photograph peeking out of one pocket and a phone numbered post-it sticking out of the other.

My snarky remark earns me a few sweetened smirks,

a slight "huh",

and carmine cheeks.

He's embarrassed but amused.

He shakes his head and gently pulls the fan ephemera from himself placing it hesitantly on the bar.

I get the feeling he thinks I will judge him somehow, for wanting to leave it there.

Again with no sieve, I voice, "Don't worry about what I think; no one's judgment should matter but your own."

With that, he motions to our purveyor of good cheer to discard his young, fan girls' leavings.

He turns to me and begins speaking.

"Thank you, I am always so fearful of my actions. I really dislike living under the public's scrutiny all the time. I feel I can never truly be myself."

"And who might that be?"

"We'll, I'm really not comfortable with any of this... the outward fanatic displays,

the photographers' flickering flashes,

the feminine shattering screams.

I'm really a quiet man who just... tolerates it... I guess."

"Well, thank you for that poignant glimpse into your troubled conscious ... but I was actually referring to who _you_ might be. ...

Embarrassingly, I honestly can't place you."

"_Really_, you don't know who I am?"

"Well, I haven't been donning a fur bra and loin cloth or living in a cave as of late.

I do recognize you from somewhere, but I really don't know who you are."

That earns me a full-blown smile accompanied by sparkling, bedroom, bloodshot irises.

_Whoa._...

I guess I really can see the appeal.

His green eyes are hypnotically chameleonic.

It's fascinating.

I could watch them for hours and always see something different.

"Hmmmm... Wow... Uh... It's just very rare not being known...

I'm Edward... Edward Cullen."

"Nice to meet you Edward, Edward Cullen. I'm Bella Swan."

"Wow... _the one and only_ Bella Swan,

celebrity psychoanalyst,

you are legend in my circles."

"And which circles might those be?"

"You're like L.A.'s most famous psychiatrist.

You've helped so many people I know.

I'm kind of humbled to be in your presence and a little taken aback, too.

I didn't know you were so... young,

and forgive me for being so forward,

_beautiful_."

"What were you expecting...

Maybe a navy blue suit-donning,

prescription-pad wielding,

librarian-horn-rimmed-glasses wearing,

fully-graying spinster?"

His ears are now tipping red,

as my superego barks.

Bella, you are just too bad for your own good, sometimes.

"Well, no... not exactly.

It's just that I didn't have this vision of you.

When my friends and coworkers sang your praises, I just envisioned someone older and not as..."

"Wise-assed ? ...

Sorry, I couldn't resist. Please continue ."

"Attractive... I was about to say."

_Oh_.

He gestures with his hands and all-consuming eyes at the same time that I was well put together.

With any other man I would continue with the beating brows and the biting quips, but with him I just back down and accept his compliment.

He is being so candidly sweet, but I also sense that it is quite difficult for him to speak this honestly.

He embraces a jesting tone while holding his celery stick before biting it.

"Please forgive me - I had no time for breakfast - but, the latter works, too ... _crunch_... you being a wise-ass... that is... as would you wearing the librarian glasses."

"You don't say?

That's actually good to know...

I actually keep a pair in my desk for dirty male patients' fantasies."

He snort-spits while taking a sip and starts coughing...

_Ouch_...

Horseradish in general is bad enough, but up the nose, too

it's lethal...

Being the good sport that I am, I move over to the empty seat and softly pat his back then mildly scratch it.

He tenses at first then kind of... melts... back into my hand.

Hmm, he's pretty toned...

As I ease into the once- vacant seat between us, I turn on my million "Bellawatt" smile in apology then finish the last of my Mimosa.

He points at my flute, and rasps, "May I get you another?"

"Sure... I don't board for another fifteen."

After clearing his throat he waves down the bartender for another round for us.

"Really, me too? Where are you headed?"

"Paris."

The glorious grin...

back in place ...

on his face

tells me everything;

he's on the same flight and in my section.

If I didn't know his type, I might be interested.

He honestly is a very handsome man.

But looks do not equate to substance.

If I had to choose from beauty, brawn, brains or bravery, the nerd would trump each time.

However, if "befittingness" was an acceptable word in our language, it would definitely be the contender for consideration.

We continue our small talk, and I find out that he's done a little of everything regarding entertainment but I would probably know him best from movies or professional ad campaigns.

I also uncover that he plays guitar as a hobby and is an avid reader, like me.

Additionally, I ascertain he's learned, as he's taken online courses and studied random topics of interest in addition to garnering knowledge from the parts he's played.

I am really quite surprised; he's not at all as I pegged him to be.

I don't know whether to be pleased for him that he's not a dreg or disappointed with myself that I didn't size him up properly.

Further examination reveals that he was born and schooled in Chicago but avoids O'hare Airport like he would the flu.

He has two sisters, Rose and Alice , who are both in college, a mother, Esme, who interior designs and a father, Carlisle, who surgically doctors, all of whom are meeting up with him in a few days on the French Riviera after his photographic shooting.

He hates early morning, transatlantic flights, partied a little too much with his compatriot friends last evening and would rather be home now cuddling in bed with his dog.

Ordinarily the last bit would be a little too much information, but I see it as though he is someone who is overly affectionate seeking a more permanent companion of the same species.

"British Airways flight 6699 now boarding at gate 8."

I hear him sputter again,

and now he's blushing,

and coughing a bit, too.

I rub, then pat his back again.

He's like wax in my warm hands.

"Sorry...

I fly so frequently they just tell me to be ready at a certain time and send a driver.

I never bother looking at my boarding pass or the flight numbers.

This one number, though...

caught me off guard."

His flushed face is still quite evident.

If he was that much of a lecher, he would have probably wiggled his eyebrows or barked out a crude remark when it was first announced.

It wouldn't be my first encounter.

Maybe he is that reserved and mannered.

That's a novel thought.

I speak up, "I guess that's us."

He turns to my side to help me off of my seat...

My heel is stuck on the stool's rung...

He bends forward to ease my foot free.

"Thank you." I say it somewhat discomposed, while trying to hide my embarrassment.

"Well, if I don't see you again, have a great flight ...

Um, it was very nice meeting you, Bella."

He holds out his hand in offering for me to shake. I grasp it, but then he gently rolls my arm and clasps my fingers, bringing the back of my hand to his lips.

"Ouch! Damn the static from these carpets." He complains forcefully and rubs at his lips.

The air does seem a little dry, I guess.

No one's kissed my hand in quite some time.

I think I intimidate most men.

It felt kind of nice.

His lips are really soft.

Even his day's growth of scruff felt good.

Gee, am I the one now blushing?

"It was very nice meeting you Edward.

I hope we meet again...

in a non-professional way, of course.

Also, thank you for the drink."

"You're welcome.

Thank you for your company...

and for your back rubs."

I grab my carry-on while Edward motions for me to go first.

I'll say this, his parents have trained him well.

He's very much the gentleman.

He genuinely looked disappointed that he did not have a third hand to carry my tote.

I rummage through my bag to retrieve my boarding pass as I move across the ramp.

I navigate through first class, glancing back to see Edward, but regretfully, I don't.

I actually feel a loss, a pang in my cardiac cavity.

I walk carefully to ensure that I won't trip in my black Mary Jane Louboutin pumps - death traps that they are - and take my window seat.

I digress. Sometimes vanity gets the best of me over practicality.

It's just that I can't see myself arriving in France in tennis shoes.

I would definitely not be caught dead in Converse s, either.

Those days are long gone.

I guess I'll tough it out for the next thirteen hours it will take to get there.

I didn't check to see if the seat next to me was purchased.

If I'd have thought enough ahead, I would have booked both seats.

It would be worth it not to have a passenger next to me with chronic halitosis or sleep apnea.

Just as I'm ruminating a bit too much over my rushed oversight..."I believe you'll need to move your purse a bit, miss ... as this is my seat."

I hear that melodic, velveteen voice before I see his luminous, lady-killing smile.

I look over to fully see the gorgeousness of my six a.m. drinking companion and beam shyly.

_God, what is wrong with me?_

I feel every bit as awkward as a lost, virgin, thirteen-year-old girl who stumbles into a room full of aroused, male, heterosexual pedophiles.

"We've got to stop meeting like this.

People will most likely talk,

or Tweet,

or upload us on to YouTube ."

"You joke Bella, but I bet there are at least a dozen posts with regards to our last hour together already in cyberspace."

"Wow, that's pretty... unsettling."

"Actually, it's pretty _normal_ for my life."

We continue our mildly flirtatious banter for the next few hours learning a great deal more about each other.

We discover that we are both twenty-eight - me being the eldest by ten months.

I share with him my precocity and how I began solving crime cases for my dad at age ten and began attending college courses at fourteen to appease my mom.

He then shares his and tells me how he bounced from one mundane boarding school to the next and eventually ended up with lackluster private tutors while he began his career in film at age nine.

There is a contented easiness between us.

It's... nice.

I really enjoy his company, and I assess that he's enjoying mine.

We get up to switch seats for a spell, and as much as I put on a good front, he senses my podiatric discomfort over choosing inappropriate footwear for this trip.

I can't help but to wince now and then, but this time, it really shows.

_Oh forgive me, Dr. Freud_ . I say this inwardly as I bait Edward towards the suggestion to remove my now-despised toe coverings.

"You changed your shoes... and you're wearing socks."

Gone are the dark leather wing-tips and bare ankles, but in their place are fuchsia cheeks and florid ears.

"You noticed. I didn't have time to change them this morning. I crashed at one of my friend's places and took a quick shower.

When I came out my socks were gone."

Sensing my perplexity he continues.

"My friend's cat is known as somewhat of a sock monster…

The cat steals socks and runs off with them.

The outcome is this,

the Chuck's... with socks... now on my feet.

I grabbed them from my bag before coming over here.

My stuff was already packed in the limo before the driver retrieved me.

Somehow, it didn't seem proper... changing them in front of you... at the lounge."

I was right; he _is_ a well-mannered gentleman.

"May I?" He asks this as he gestures to my right shoe.

I'm elated my plan is working yet I'm uncertain of the intimacy over the outcome .

The moment he touches my stockinged-calf, I cave.

His fingers are long and strong, yet delicate.

I let him just take my leg to secure it over his lap.

He gently grasps my pump and gingerly pulls the strap releasing it from the buckle.

Why does this moment feel as though he's removing more...

than my shoe?

In a reverse Cinderella moment he slips off the entombing device and places it in the space between us.

Never leaving my gaze, he begins his sinful assault...

kneading my compressed parts...

over my arch...

up to the ball...

down to the heel...

across my toes...

Uhhh, I'm in proverbial heaven ...

or maybe hell.

It's all good.

It's _better_ than good.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh. ...

Mmmm...

So delightful...

Ohhhhhhh...

That feels wo...Un...der…ful…

Uhhhhhh...

The hands of _this _musician… are also _those_ of a magician...

You're in the _wrong _profession."

"Thank you... I think."

He grasps my left foot and continues with the same ravishment.

It seems I'm not the only one getting enjoyment out of this as I feel a dormant part of him awakening under my calf.

Sensing his own volcanic activity, he subtly lifts my leg a little higher,

closer to his heart.

For the first time in my entire life, I find Nirvana.

This is heaven.

This is bliss.

How could I ever explain this... to my colleagues?

How can a simple foot rub transcend everything in my life?

This majestic man who exudes such a quiet confidence has rendered me, _The_ Bella Swan, into goo, sentimental tripe - poor and worthless.

He is a deity.

And, I have come to realize that I don't want to let him go.

This is my revelation.

It just became, uh… revealed...

_"Yeah, where is your brain now, Bella?"_

_"He's rendered you senseless"_, says my id.

What am I to do?

I don't do relationships.

"_Are you getting ahead of yourself much, dear?_"

God, my psyche's parts are scaring me.

I'll just enjoy this flight while it lasts.

If nothing else, it's been a very memorable ride.

As we are flying somewhere over the Atlantic approaching Europe I hear...

"Champagne to toast in the New Year?"

from our flight attendant.

"Sure, why not?"

I turn to Edward - who's been quasi-cuddling my shoulder and inconspicuously sniffing my hair for the last hour of "Hangover 2" (Of course the irony of showing this movie on New Years' Eve is not lost.) - and take my glass from her tray as Edward takes his.

"What shall we toast to?" He says it with a quiet yet hopeful hesitation.

"How about a new dawn or a new year like the beginning of something?"

"Sure... that sounds fitting... Fuuuh... I mean crap."

He sounds a bit apprehensive and appears a bit flustered.

I recognize this because aside from the "bridge pinching" he sometimes does to cease blood flow to his brain, he combs his hands through his hair, which is what he's doing now.

Although he seems troubled, I know this is not a major point of anxiousness because he only uses one hand instead two - meaning he is more likely embarrassed by something as opposed to being angered over it.

It hasn't taken me long to hone in on his mannerisms.

My father's law enforcement investigative nature gave my career aspirations an early start in my teen years.

That, as well as all of my formal education and research, has made me a good judge of body language.

"What's the matter?" I bat my eyes slightly in interest.

"You are going to think I'm silly."

"No judging, remember?" My sincerity rings through.

"Okay. I hate my agent booking this flight… at this time… now."

"Go on." I say it with no emotion in my voice, yet I'll be a little crushed if it turns out that he's not enjoying my company.

"Well, this is stupid, but it's a superstitious tradition in our family to grab someone and kiss 'em on New Year's Eve; but I don't have anyone this year .

It's like that iconic Life Magazine moment with the sailor kissing the nurse after V-Jay day in Times Square.

My dad did that to my mom when they first met.

Corny and clichéd, but it was their love at first sight, even though it didn't work out that way for the couple in that picture."

Play your cards right, Bella. ...

"Your disappointment makes it sound like you have had a lot of practice doing that over the years."

I say this good-naturedly but really don't want to become just another form of conquest to him.

"I know this sounds really disturbing, but we always had very large family gatherings on New Years' Eve... lots of cousins."

The cousin concept is a bit off-putting, but the sailor/nurse image is... tempting. I'm an intrigant .

"I think I can oblige you... just this once."

Now I'm the one who should be pulling my hair.

Keep your composure, Bella.

It's just a kiss.

We make our toast, clink our glasses, and tip the bubbling contents back against our now tickling throats.

We finish a bit more hurriedly than proper etiquette usually dictates, then place down our glasses. …

The countdown begins to ensue.

"Ten..."

Our eyes look into one another's darting slightly left then right.

I have noticed his eyes morphing into many hues today but none this intense.

They take on this darkened, forest color where his pupils are almost completely consuming.

"Nine."

We each take a calming breath in acknowledgment of what we are about do.

"Eight."

Our mouths part slightly, and Edward gently glides his tongue between his lips moistening them.

"Seven."

I find myself... doing the same.

"Six."

He begins to lean in towards me.

"Five."

I meet him halfway.

"Four."

"Thank you," he says sweetly.

"Three."

"You're welcome," I give obligingly.

"Two."

"_Oh, what the hell_."

He immediately places his hands on either side of my head

under my hair,

around the back of my neck,

with his thumbs lightly pressing,

just underneath each earlobe.

He closes the distance.

Then he places his lips on mine.

"One ."

"Happy New Year!"

His lips are gentle yet controlling.

_Kiss_.

He smells delicious.

_Kiss_.

The back of my head is tingling.

_Kiss_.

Blood is rushing to my face...

_Kiss_.

And other parts of me.

_Kiss_.

He tugs my upper lip between his.

_Kiss_.

He introduces me to his tongue.

_Kiss_.

I introduce him to mine.

_Kiss_.

I thread my fingers through his hair.

_Kiss_.

I pull him to me.

"Mmmmm."_ Kiss_.

This is bliss.

_Kiss_.

My heart's pounding in my ears…

I mean my blood flow is.

_Kiss_.

I hear glasses clinking.

_Kiss_.

We pull away,

stirred but not shaken,

and take a deep breath.

"_Wow_."... He says it first.

"_Likewise_."

We just stare , taking in this moment not sure of how things are left between us.

But I break our silence.

"Edward... may I ask you something?

"Certainly."

"_Who_ kissed me?

He looks bewildered as I continue.

"Was it Edward Cullen, the actor... or was it the _real_ Edward Cullen?"

All playfulness and desire disappear from his face

But, an epiphanic aura emerges in his gaze.

"Bella, from the moment my eyes met yours,

I sensed something was different,

but then you touched my back at the bar;

and I felt_ it_.

I don't know how to describe it, because I've never experienced anything like it before, but I knew…

I needed to keep feeling it again.

Every time we've touched since then, it's been there.

There's kinetic energy,

a continuous dynamic,

this chemical reaction,

between us.

At first I thought I was just responding to your touch.

It's ... _been_ awhile …

But, the more it kept happening...

the greater I understood.

That kiss... was all me, Edward Anthony Masen Cullen,

no one else.

I don't know what will happen from here...

whether you would even consider seeing me again.

But, I do know that I don't want _this_... this feeling... to go away.

Specifically, I don't want _**you**_... to go away.

Bella, you are … amazing… engaging... brilliant... witty... ravishing and just... magnificent.

You are the first person I have ever felt comfortable opening up to, and it's not because of your profession.

It's because of _who_ you are.

I don't know if you even feel remotely the same...

and I get that.

If you don't…

or you can't…

then this will have been the most pivotal day of my life...

and I'll accept it...

and move on...

and pray that I will even find half... the connection with someone else in my lifetime...

that I have found with you."

In all of my twenty-eight years no one thing has rendered me so completely speechless until this man presented his words before me.

I begin to feel burning in my chest, tearing at my eyes and quivering upon my lips.

No one has ever conveyed to me such beautiful declarations, and I would be foolhardy to let him walk away.

"Bella, say something, please, I'm so sorry if I have offended you."

I place two fingers over his silky lips to quiet his fears while I further compose myself.

He's still unsure…

I still can't speak … but my gesture of grabbing his collar with both fists and hoisting him over to my mouth sends the message, loud and clear.

_Kiss_.

I want this.

_Kiss_.

I want _him_.

_Kiss_.

I want _**us**_.

"Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking.

We have just been cleared to land at Charles de Gaulle International Airport.

It is presently 5:00 a.m. Central European Time.

The temperature is 6 degrees Celsius; 43 degrees Fahrenheit .

Our arrival time will be in seven minutes.

We hope you had a pleasant flight.

Thank you for flying British Airways."

The flight attendant continues on with seating, securing and seat-belting instructions.

I still have my hands on him.

Although now instead of kissing him, I'm relishing his closeness… his prickliness… his pheromones… his heartbeats.

"Hey." I give him all I can muster.

"Hey back." He gives me with a smile.

"So, what now?" I ask it hopefully.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a stretch, some breakfast and a good night's sleep… preferably in that order."

My emboldened mouth speaks with a smirk before I can rein it in, "I know one thing on your list I can help with."

"Oh really... and what might that be?"

"You'll just have to be patient... and see."

He kisses my nose softly and places a loose lock behind my ear.

His lips find their way down the side of my shivering neck... and across my heated collarbone.

I want to bury his head in my breasts...

and help him with his stretching.

But alas, now is not the time, and here is not the place.

"Edward?"

"_Kiss_... Hmmm?"

He pulls away slightly. His breath now has the volume of a resting bull, and it's… pleasantly erotic.

"Your fans... will they, um, follow you ... to your hotel?"

This awakens him.

"Oh, shit... um... yeah, probably."

I take a deep breath, and pull up Grandma Swan's panties.

"I have my own flat.

It has security.

You can stay with me.

Call your people.

Have them transfer your things …into another car.

Bring them to my place."

I see his thoughts spinning and a grin emerging.

"Why Miss Swan... I would be delighted to accompany you."

"Well then... Mr. Cullen, I guess I can help you with all three things on your list, and quite a few more."

"I'll be looking forward to that... Bella.

Oh, and by the way, about that toast, turn around."

I lean back against the firm planes of his chest and shoulders while he drapes his cocooning arms around me as we take in an ethereal sunrise.

It's all the colors of a child's ice cream sundae and so totally befitting, of not just wondrous France, or the dawn of our toast, but of the promise of love, whenever... and however... that might be.

By just basking in the comfort of each other, I know we will truly have a great… and happy… new year, with hopefully, many more to come.

* * *

A/N: American Airlines had a flight to Paris from LAX operating under British Airways that was numbered 6699 on New Years.

This was my first post. Please share your thoughts.

* * *

Reviews are champagne bubbles; please tickle my nose with some.


End file.
